Archive | November 2012

Any Time, Any Place


While indulging in the twenty-four hour + sex fest that is Alison Tyler’s Morning, Noon and Night: Erotica for Couples, I soon realized that there was something to be enjoyed about each story. Sex every hour on the hour?  Who could resist?

However, I found myself especially drawn to Jeremy Edwards’ Elevenses, immediately smitten with Cilla and Drew and their Saturday morning routine of satiating their desire just before noon.

I do have a confession, though, my favorite story in the book also made me a little envious. I, too, am a creature of habit.  I was once partial to the hour of three a.m.  My motto was, wake me up, then find the sexiest way you can to put me back to sleep.

Over the years, though, I’ve become a slave to convenience and opportunity. If the kids are gone for the afternoon, that’s when we have an unspoken and unofficial meeting in the bedroom, the shower, or maybe even the back deck.

If we’re driving alone and find a place to pull off briefly and discreetly, we take advantage. An often exhausted wife, parent, writer and 9 to 5er, I’ve learned to get it in where and when I can fit it in.

But, I’ve also learned to love the spontaneity, the surprise of an unexpected and unplanned for tryst.  Sure, elevenses every Saturday would be nice, but I also can enjoy occasional oneses on a Sunday, fourses on a Wednesday, and on any day – a two a day.

Of course you can have spontaneity, and learn to love it, too, even if it’s only vicariously. Just open up Morning, Noon and Night: Erotica for Couples, pick a page, and indulge in whichever hour you land.


Romance vs. Reality

At some point yesterday I tweeted that I was writing a mushy, lovey-dovey blog post.  And I was.  In fact it’s all set to go.  I was going to post it here on this blog on this day, because it would be all so fitting…

…because today, I have been married four years.

Over the past few days I’ve been thinking of the many ways in which I could say that:

Four years ago, I married the love of my life…

It’s been four, beautiful, magical years and I look forward to many more…

And it went on and on.  I wrote a terrible, terrible poem last night and a handwritten love letter.  It was hours away from our anniversary, and that’s what I was supposed to be doing, right? Anniverseries = bliss = romance… right?

I know that’s not always the case, but sometimes I forget.  I tend to think that reality will sometimes step aside for romance, but no matter what day it is, a marriage is still a marriage and sometimes it sucks ass.

So…I’ve purged enough.  And I’ll keep my shiny, happy blog post for a shinier, happier day, whenever that may be.

But hey, I did get some diamonds, and diamonds are forever, they say.

Best Laid Plans

This holiday weekend, where I was off for an amazing five days, was a surprisingly productive one.  I didn’t go in promising myself or anyone else that I would write, blog this, finish that.  I had simply planned to relax, spend time with family and enjoy the time off.

However, at least three out of the five days I initiated a 1k1hr challenge.  On all but one of those days, at least one other writer joined me, which gave me even more motivationa and encouragement.  On all days, I surpassed my goal of 1k words.  I wound up wrapping up a story late Saturday night and submitting it for a call that I had been working on another story for, but gave up on.  I also started something new, fresh and fun…a kissing story, on yesterday.

It really was that simple.  I had heard as much, many times over.  You want to do something, you find the time, you make the time, and you do it.  One hour each day, and I had been more productive than I had been in months.

Felt good.  Feels good. Plus, I got these sexy new covers in my email for some books I’ll be in early next year by Ashley Lister and Rachel Kramer Bussel:

Now, how’s that for motivation?

Every Day I’m Thankful…

…for my children, husband, dog, turtle, extended family (even the ones who get on my nerves) and friends I’ve met in the craziest ways (I met one of my besties via Twitter over a year ago) and editors who continue to publish me and even take the time to mentor and encourage me and readers who like my stuff enough to reach out and even those who read and enjoy my stories and I never know anything about it.

But…I’ve got a feeling that today, I’m supposed to be especially mushy about it 😉 so…

I am especially thankful this year and on this day for two children, who I struggled even at my young age to conceive and to carry, who continue to thrive despite numerous challenges, a daughter who, even with ASD, asks for hug after hug and kiss after kiss and comes into my room to tell me she loves me about one hundred times a day.  I am especially thankful for a son who is standing next to me right now reading from a Batman Comic Book after having not spoken a word until he was two years old.

I am thankful for a family physician who, after numerous hospital and specialist visits, had the experience and foresight to test me for Lyme Disease when he out of everyone else recognized the symptoms, when I was ready to just shoot myself to end the misery.  And on that note, I am thankfuly for a boss who left work to come and take me on one of those hospital trips.

I am thankful for a mom to argue with but also have beers and laugh with, a husband who knows and excepts all my flaws.  I am eternally thankful for the ability to continue to do what I love after all these years.

I am certainly thankful for the opportunity to edit my first anthology and to keep coming up with new ideas.

I am thankful, I am, everyday, and always.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Love, Tenille


Today is a quiet day for me as I am steadily working on the latest story that tortures me so, but I was purusing Rachel’s blog when I saw her announcement of both the Dirty Girls and Curvy Girls  anthologies recently being released as audio books on Audible. Dirty Girls includes my story, The Change of Life and Curvy Girls includes my story, Small Packages.

If you like listening to your smut as opposed to reading it, check it out!

Private Parts

The really oddball conversation I had with two people over the weekend made me think of this old post  on my old blog.

The conversation went something like this and I’m making up the name for Unc’s protection: “Uncle Joe, tell Tenille why you cry during sex.”

And Uncle Joe did, in detail.  He even demonstrated…the tears and his moves. I let out a bit of nervous laughter and didn’t comment (what in the hell was I supposed to say?), then he asked if I ever cry during sex.  I was sure he was joking until I realized that everything was quiet and he had paused waiting for my answer.

To make this horribly awkward moment go away, I answered “No.” Whether it was or is the truth was none of his business.


It didn’t stop there. He went on to tell me about a couple of his large-breasted girlfriends.  One had boobs so big (apparently) that “when she took her bra off, she’d tip over.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a listener and a people watcher, and I do actually get inspiration from things I see and hear, but sometimes I wonder just what in the hell people think it is I do and write or if they realize that that is only some of me, not all of me.

So, friends, dear friends, if you ever meet me in real life, don’t immediately tell me how hard your husband banged you last night.  Just…give it a minute. Let’s talk about the weather or something first.

The Hard Part

Reading this insightful and terrifyingly real blog post from Shanna Germain got me to thinking about my own excuses, and why I haven’t gotten further than I have with my writing.

I used to think writing was glamorous.  I was enamored with the words between the lovely hard covers, intrigued by the authors whose names were on the front and spine.  It must be nice, I thought, to have nothing more to do than sit at a grand, wooden desk with a gorgeous window view and pound out word after beautiful word.

I wanted to do that . I wanted to be that.

How old was I then? Ten? Eleven?

I knew that I wanted to be a writer.  Nothing else.  I never had a backup plan like becoming a nurse or a teacher, it was always the writing.

I got older, of course, and actually started writing, for my school and local paper, and barely past twenty-one I started writing erotica.  Of course, I was juggling two, sometimes three jobs that had nothing to do with writing, but I was still writing my little stories and I was even being published.

The busier life became for me, writing full-time seemed less and less an attainable dream, but I was satisfied with the small thrill of seeing my name in print, of having the validation that people wanted to read what I wrote.  But that still wasn’t motivation enough for me to do what it took to make writing full-time a real possibility.  And I knew what it took.

I had to write more, much more.  I had to branch out.  There was always an excuse I could pull out of my hat at will: Work, then marriage and family and it became easier to make the excuses not to write than to actually sit down and do it.

It was/is ironic.  Writing brings my heart joy.  I love everything about it, even the sound the keys make when I’m sitting there typing 3,000 words of complete and utter crap.  Still, I sometimes avoid it because it doesn’t always give me the end result I’m looking for, like say, a publication, or even a story that I can work into something submittable (yes, I deem it a word).

As I’m venturing out now, getting into editing and trying to put out more fiction/erotica so that doing this on a full-time basis really could be a possibility, if and when I want it to be, I’m learning that no one is going to force me to do it, and no one is going to do it for me.  The story certainly isn’t going to write itself.  I can talk, wish and dream about it all day long, but if I don’t do what it takes to make it happen, then what’s it all for?

There’s nothing glamorous about sitting at my kitchen table at one in the morning trying to make a deadline when I have to be up at five to give my kid her daily meds.  There’s nothing glamorous about the waiting game, the time between calls and publications.  But…it’s not supposed to be.  It is what it is.  It’s what I love.  It’s what I do, if and when I have the will and courage to just…do it.